


illumination

by RestlessWanderings



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley's Fuck Shit Up Jacket (Good Omens), Cuddling, F/F, Hurt Crowley, Ineffable Wives, Yearning, medieval manuscript illumination, origin story of the Fuck Shit Up Jacket
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-19 01:56:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29867412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RestlessWanderings/pseuds/RestlessWanderings
Summary: Crowley grins, showing off her too-sharp teeth, her sclera-less eyes glinting in the weak winter sunlight. There’s a bleeding cut on her cheek and some of her scales are showing.or: the one where aziraphale yearns while warming and patching up crowley
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 33
Collections: Unleash The Chaos - Zine Fics and Art





	illumination

**Author's Note:**

> oh my god i can't believe i nearly forgot to post this. anyway here's my entry to the Fuck Shit Up Jacket zine! it was challenging to write if only for the fact its short and not my usual 10k+ lmaooo
> 
> enjoy!

Aziraphale leans forward, her nose nearly touching the parchment as she breathes on the gesso. Before it can harden again she applies a tissue-thin layer of gold leaf to it, dusting it with Divinity as she goes. Nodding to herself, she reaches for the animal tooth at the corner of her desk and gently rubs the gold leaf, ensuring that it sticks and shines, adding another light blessing as she does so. It’s not every day she’s able to bless a Bible while it’s being made, after all, and she wants to see this one again in a few hundred years.

She shifts the manuscript further up the desk, letting the gold leaf catch on the sunlight peeking through the slats of her boarded-up window. She squints at it, frowning. There are a few more places she could add some gold leaf, but would it overwhelm the piece? Maybe if she adds some to the underside of Michael’s wing it’ll enhance the –

“If you keep staring at it like that it’ll start crying Angel.”

Aziraphale jolts, banging her knee, already glaring at the window. “Crowley!”

Between the slats of the shutters she can make out flashes of Crowley – the upturn of her lips, her golden eyes, her wine-red hair – and feels her heart skip a beat.

“Come on,” Crowley says, pressing against the boards, “how’d it disappoint you? A misspelling somewhere? You know Hell has a demon just for that, a funny little fellow by the name of Titivillus. Have you seen him around?”

Aziraphale sighs and sets the manuscript aside. “Crowley, what are you doing here?”

“I was in the area,” Crowley says, snaking her long, thin fingers between the slatted shutters and prying them apart. A gust of frigid air sweeps into the room and Aziraphale shivers at the suddenness of it.

“Get in, get in,” Aziraphale says, moving her illumination supplies from her desk and setting them on the table next to her bed. She tries to avert her eyes as Crowley climbs through the window and over her desk, but shuffling through parchment only distracts her hands, not her eyes, and Crowley has always been lovely to admire.

She shakes her head. “If you’re here to convince me about that Arrangement, I’ll have you know that –” Aziraphale cuts herself off as she turns to face Crowley, her stomach dropping.

Crowley grins, showing off her too-sharp teeth, her sclera-less eyes glinting in the weak winter sunlight. There’s a bleeding cut on her cheek and some of her scales are showing. Aziraphale’s breath catches at the sight of them because scales mean one thing: there was a fight Crowley almost didn’t win, there was a blow that got her too close to discorporation for comfort, and Aziraphale can see them now – the shiny, lovely black scales scattering along her jawbone and then blanketing her neck, disappearing into her tunic.

Aziraphale moves before she can stop herself, brushing aside Crowley’s ripped cloak, chest tightening as she brushes her fingers over Crowley’s frigid, trembling skin. There’s little sign of that familiar Hellfire heat, and she miracles her hands a few degrees warmer to coax it out as she prods Crowley’s bruised ribs, gritting her teeth at the angry purple color.

Crowley hisses in protest but doesn’t flinch. If Aziraphale were a romantic she’d say Crowley leans into her touch but she ruthlessly shoves the thought aside, instead pulling away and steering Crowley towards the cot in the corner.

“It’s really not that bad, Angel, don’t worry,” Crowley says.

“Don’t worry? _Don’t worry?_ ” Aziraphale scoffs. “You come to me bleeding and nearly frozen solid and you expect me not to worry? Do you have a head wound or should I assume such nonsense is merely a way to keep your tongue busy?” She says, snapping her fingers. A few more pillows and blankets appear on the cot. Then she brushes away Crowley’s fumbling fingers, unlacing her ripped, dirty cloak and moving to her it on the desk.

“Careful!” Crowley says, reaching for it but stopping short when Aziraphale blocks her way. “That’s a good one Angel, nice and thick. Keeps me warm when I’m doing my tempting.”

Aziraphale shoots her a look but doesn’t say anything. It’s not often Crowley lets her close like this, close enough to comfort, to shelter, to heal. She clears her throat.

“May I?” she says, gesturing to Crowley, and Crowley nods, lifting up her tunic.

Crowley’s skin is still cold to the touch, but that Hellfire warmth is beginning to simmer again, and Aziraphale keeps her hands warmer than she normally would as she pulls on her Divinity, spreading a thin layer over Crowley’s bruises. She loses herself in the healing as she always does, too focused on keeping an iron grip on her Divinity and ignoring the anger simmering in the back of her mind, vicious and sharp.

She shies away from it. There’ll be time later to mull it over, to pack it away in a neat little box and shove it to the farthest corners of her mind. She can already hear Gabriel’s voice, can already hear the _Most things aren’t worthy of our attention, Aziraphale, let alone our wrath,_ his violet eyes staring pointedly at her.

She smothers the curl of her lip before it can emerge. The very thought of Crowley being considered unworthy by anyone is preposterous. Sets her teeth on edge, it does. 

Crowley flinches, hissing, and Aziraphale jerks, stepping away. The bruise, yellow now, is ringed with red, as if Crowley had been in the sun for too long, and Aziraphale’s stomach drops.

“Oh, Crowley, I’m so –”

“You hear something?” Crowley says, cocking her head to the side as she lets her tunic fall.

Aziraphale wrings her hands together. “Crowley, my dear, I really am so –”

Crowley’s hand slaps over her mouth and she freezes, eyes widening.

“Really,” Crowley says, a smile tugging at her lips, “my reputation can’t take it. Besides, an angel apologizing to a demon? Not right, not right at all,” she says, moving her hand from Aziraphale’s mouth to tug on one of her errant curls.

“Stop that,” Aziraphale says, batting her hand away and trying to muster up some annoyance.

Warmth blooms in her chest as she leans closer to Crowley, unable to look away from her face. Her fingers twitch. The cut on Crowley’s cheek is still bleeding and Aziraphale can’t seem to force her hands away from Crowley, not when she’s this cold, not when she’s leaning into her touch, not when she so rarely lets her this close. Her fingers drift over the tunic, brushing past her ribs, her chest, and hovering over her scales. Crowley’s sharp inhale makes her own heart stutter but she forges on, pressing lightly on them. They’re smooth under her fingertips, cooler than the rest of her, and she lets the temperature of her hands rise another degree, relishing the shiver Crowley gives her in response. Keeping her hand on Crowley’s heart, she lifts her other hand to cradle her cheek, brushing her thumb over the cut a few times to heal it.

Crowley closes her eyes, a pleased hum slipping past her lips, and Aziraphale’s hand tingles from it. She grits her teeth against the wave of _want_ that threatens to drown her. A dangerous thing, an angel wanting. Dangerous indeed.

“What are you really doing here, Crowley?” Aziraphale asks, voice barely a whisper.

Crowley huffs, a sharp little thing that sounds so despondent Aziraphale’s heart clenches. “I just – I just –” Crowley pauses and takes a deep breath, avoiding her gaze. “I guess I just needed a moment, Angel. That’s all.”

Crowley yawns, settling further onto the cot, and lies down. She tugs on Aziraphale’s tunic, pulling her down. Aziraphale, helpless against her, lets Crowley push and tug on her until they’re curled up together.

“Would you – umm – that is –”

Crowley shushes her. “Sleep, Angel.” 

In the morning Aziraphale will let her eyes roam over Crowley, still asleep, and marvel. In the morning Aziraphale will carefully rise from the cot and bless her cloak to always be the perfect warmth. In the morning she will take Crowley’s ruined cloak and miracle it away. In the morning, once Crowley rises, Aziraphale will give her the blessed cloak and watch Crowley’s golden eyes widen, watch one of her rare, real smiles slip across her face, and will try not to beam back at her. In the morning Aziraphale will watch Crowley climb out of her window and disappear, not knowing this will be their last meeting for a few years.

And, hundreds of years from now, she’ll recognize the blessing she’s put on the cloak – no longer a cloak, but rather an orange and black jacket – and smile.

For now, though, Aziraphale settles behind Crowley and keeps watch over her.

**Author's Note:**

> catch me shoving a bunch of my archives/medieval manuscript knowledge onto aziraphale 
> 
> also quick how many iterations of 'aziraphale is studying w monks in the mountains and crowley pops up hurt or freezing or both' can i write? apparently a lot


End file.
